Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family) Page 5

“I liked them. But obviously, there are fans”—he points to himself—“and fans,”—he points to me and winks.

  “I think I felt a big connection to Harry because he was an orphan too, and his life with the Dursleys was very shitty.”

  Shit! Why did I open the can of worms? I usually avoid any reference to my childhood. People react weirdly when they find out I grew up in group homes. Some pity me, and some simply don’t know what to say. Blake knows, of course, but it’s still not a pleasant dinner topic.

  Blake straightens up, training his eyes on me. “Hadn’t thought about it like that. Makes sense. Dreamed of going to Hogwarts and all that?”

  I nod enthusiastically.

  I discovered the series shortly after arriving at the group home. I devoured it, feeling a deep kinship with the orphan boy. I desperately wished for something or someone who would take me out of that place where I was surrounded by loneliness and bullies. No such luck. Sometimes I wished I’d ended up in foster care as a baby because then I wouldn’t have experienced the warmth and love of a family, wouldn’t have known what I was missing. But then I chastised myself because I cherished those years I had with Mom and Dad.

  “Where did you go just now?” Blake asks, and I snap out of my thoughts. He closes the distance to me, leaning against the shelf a mere foot away from me.

  “Old memories.”

  “Want to share them?” His voice is unusually soft, but I don’t detect any pity. I never can take pity.

  “Nah! There’s nothing quite like enjoying the present day.”

  “I can help with that. I’m all about enjoying life.”

  “That’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat with quite so much gusto.”

  “All your doing. That dinner was delicious. Your arrabbiata sauce is even better than Mom’s, but don’t tell her I said that.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Turning around to face the bookshelf, I rearrange the copies of the Harry Potter series because they’re out of order. I barely register Blake is moving until I feel him right behind me.

  “Now I’m considering other ways to help you so you can thank me often. I’m really good at maintenance: changing lightbulbs, the batteries for your battery-operated buddy, that sort of things.”

  I freeze in the act of pulling out the sixth volume. Blake brings one hand to my waist, and the contact stirs something deep inside me. Ever so slowly, he skims his hand upward, sliding it along my ribs to my back, then inching up on my spine. It’s all I can do not to lean into his touch. What is he doing to me? And why am I enjoying this so much?

  Warmth radiates through me everywhere he touches, but when the fabric of my sweater ends and his fingers touch the bare skin at the back of my neck, a small gasp tumbles past my lips. Blake presses his fingertips slightly into me. Then he inches closer until the tip of his nose is in my hair, his breath landing on my scalp. One deep inhale and his hand travels from the back of my neck down my arm. He moves with exquisite slowness, stopping for a breath after nearly every inch downward. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for my reaction, testing how far he can push. Well, if he is testing me, I’m failing spectacularly. By the time he reaches down past my elbow, I’m positive I will combust. But then he cinches up the sleeve, running his thumb along my forearm right down to my wrist, cuffing it.

  “Your pulse is wild,” he murmurs.

  “You think?” I ask in a strangled voice. He knows what he’s doing to me. He knows it exactly. This man turned me into a ball of need without touching me intimately, or even kissing me. When he moves his thumb in a little circle over my pulse point, I press my lips tightly together. This is too much. How we went from zero to one hundred in the span of seconds, I don’t know, but I need fresh air to clear my thoughts.

  I inhale deeply, gathering my wits. It’s no small task, considering Blake has me under his spell again. When I pull away, turning around, his molten gaze holds mine stubbornly, and I can’t look away, hard as I want to.

  “Want to watch the sunset on the balcony?” I manage eventually, stepping back, putting some much-needed distance between us. “I have a bottle of wine too, and some sweets: Turkish Delight.”

  “Sure.”

  While I get out the wine and the sweet treat, Blake hovers in front of the bookshelf again.

  “What’s with all these albums? Can I look?”

  “Yeah.”

  Those albums contain my illustrations. I like to print them out and look at them in albums. I feel like I can track my progress over the years better that way.

  “Are these illustrations for children’s books?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I put the wine, glasses, and candy on a platter but leave it on the counter, heading to Blake instead.

  “Wow. All these albums are full of them? There must be hundreds.”

  “Lost count over the years.” While I was traveling with Nate on the job, I kept the albums in storage, but since I relocated to San Francisco I’ve kept them in my living room.

  “When did you start?”

  “At eighteen. Took a class at the community college, and since then I buy random kids’ books that are text only, and I make up illustrations.”

  He looks up from one of the albums. “I know a children’s book publisher. I’d have to double-check, but I’m sure they do illustrated books too. Do you want me to set up a meeting?”

  “Oh no, no, it’s just a hobby.”

  “That’s a lot of work for a hobby. I’m no expert, but I think you’re really creative. I collected comic books growing up—not the same as children’s books obviously, but you’re good. He could at least give you feedback.”

  “No, it’s really fine. I’m part of several online communities, and we give each other feedback. That’s all I need.” Also, the prospect of a publisher looking over it and saying “No, thanks” is terrifying. Yikes.

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Taking the platter, we head outside, settling on the two neon-green beanbags. I showed Blake a swing online, and he ordered it, but it hasn’t been delivered yet. For now, we have the beanbags, and they are plenty comfortable. We also have two thick blankets because May in San Francisco isn’t exactly balcony weather, not even in the second half. Blake pours us wine. The sky is cloudy but the sun shines through, casting a beautiful glow—a color I can’t name, something between pink and orange.

  “Where did you see the best sunset?” Blake asks.

  “London Eye,” I answer without a doubt. “You know, the Ferris wheel? I went on it once at sunset, and it was a spectacle. It made me fall in love with that city even more.”

  “How come you didn’t move with Nate to London, then?”

  “I grew up here. I always wanted to return. I have many nice memories with my parents. Walks in Golden Gate Park, lunches in Fisherman’s Wharf. The occasional trip to Alcatraz. Even though I moved a lot, this has always been my anchor point, my home.”

  “Makes sense. I didn’t know you grew up here.”

  Afterward, we fall into a comfortable silence, watching the sun disappear from the sky. We chitchat about his family. I’m not sure how long we stay out on the balcony, but it’s pitch-dark by the time the wind starts blowing so powerfully, it chills me to the bone. The empty glasses and wine bottle are on the floor between the two beanbag chairs.

  “I’m cold,” I declare when I can’t ignore the fact anymore.

  “Me too. Up we go.”

  Blake rises to his feet and holds out his hand for me. I gladly accept the help because climbing out of a beanbag is serious business, especially after half a bottle of wine. I’m as unsteady on my feet as a toddler. But the moment my hand touches Blake’s, a bolt of heat singes me. It travels through my limbs, making my toes curl and my nipples tighten. In the span of a few seconds, my body has gone from relaxed to wound up. Blake hauls me up so close our chests touch. Our noses are dangerously close too.

  The proxi
mity makes me light-headed. The wine isn’t helping either. I pull my head back a notch so I can see Blake better. I make the mistake of looking him directly in the eyes. The intensity in them is overwhelming. I’ve been on the receiving end of his hot looks before, but this is different. There isn’t just lust here, but downright hunger. A little too late, I realize it’s probably because he can feel the tight peaks of my breasts pressing against him. He drops one hand to my waist, and his fingers are pressing against my flesh possessively. I become aware of every single point of contact—there are far too many.

  We’re close enough that I can sniff the scent of his shower gel. Crisp. Masculine. My mind immediately supplies images of Blake in the shower, rubbing gel on himself. I imagine he does that job thoroughly, not leaving out even one morsel of skin. I wonder how he looks with only a towel wrapped around himself. Now that we’re neighbors, there’s a distinct possibility I might see him in that scenario, especially with the shared balcony and everything. Shit, my Peeping Tom tendencies are getting out of hand.

  I try to whip my thoughts into shape, but they’re jumbled together and become more jumbled still when I feel Blake’s hot breath on the lobe of my ear, then the tip of his nose on my cheek. When the corner of our lips touch, he presses his fingers into my sides, a low sound reverberating in his throat.

  “Blake, I...”

  “You look so kissable right now, Clara.”

  His voice is low and rough—his bedroom voice. I haven’t heard it before. It’s sexy and inviting, just like the rest of him. Great. I won’t be able to unhear it.

  I draw in a sharp breath. Wanting to diffuse tension, I try to joke, but under the influence of the wine and his intoxicating proximity, the best I can come up with is, “So I usually don’t? Careful, Bennett, I take offense easy after drinking wine.”

  “Always do. First time I saw you, I wanted to kiss you.”

  “You did?”

  “You have no idea how much you affect me, do you?”

  Blake is looking down at me with so much intensity my knees nearly buckle. He skims his thumb along my jawline, moving to my earlobe, rubbing it gently between his thumb and forefinger. I clench my thighs together almost involuntarily. My ear is not a sweet spot. It really isn’t. But I have a hunch Blake can turn any body part into a sweet spot.

  “Blake...I...oh God, how did I end up in your arms?” I’d blame the wine, but that would make me a hypocrite.

  “Because you can’t help this either. I can’t stop thinking about you, Clara. When I’m working, when I’m at home. You’ve been on my mind since we met, and I thought I could pull it off, living next to you and not wanting to make you mine, but now I know I won’t.”

  I can’t wrap my mind around what he’s saying, but I hang onto his every word, melting against him.

  “I want to kiss you, all night long. Just kiss you.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why. I care too much about your family and—”

  “You want safe and—what was that word? Nonargumentative. Don’t think anyone ever used those words to describe me.” Leaning even closer, he adds in a low baritone, “But you want this—us—even more.” He cups my face, his thumb pressing on my lips, his fingers splayed on my cheek and jaw. A current races through me, white-hot and intense. When he drags his thumb from one corner of my mouth to the other, my hips shift, my entire body arches. Blake is pulling me to him like a magnet.

  “God, you’re intense,” I mutter.

  “You have no idea.” To my relief, he steps back, and after picking up the glasses and bottle, we head inside. “I’m going to go now, before we end up in kissing distance again.”

  “Blake—”

  He holds up his hand. “I know what you said, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting what I want.”

  There’s no mistaking his meaning. He wants me.

  “You want this too. I know you do, and you know it too. But you won’t be able to resist. I’ll make sure of it.”

  I walk him to the door in silence. When we reach it, he kisses the tip of my nose and then lets himself out. Rooted to the spot, I’m still reeling from the intensity of it all.

  ***

  Blake

  I can’t wind down after leaving Clara’s apartment. I’m wired up, energy coursing through me. I end up descending to the bar. The closing time is two o’clock, and the bar is still buzzing with people. I hop behind the counter, giving a hand to my trusted bartenders on shift, Jack and Alex.

  “Blake, didn’t know you were joining us tonight,” Alex says. Since I’m overseeing three restaurants and this bar, I rotate between the four locations. I’m not one for tight control or surprise visits, making my schedule available to my employees so they know when to expect me.

  “Wasn’t planning to.”

  But I have too much energy to sleep, and working behind the bar is the best way to burn it off. Years ago, I used to burn off my energy by going out with friends, but this is a much better use of my time. Not to mention I’ve drastically cut down the number of friends since one tried to sell details to the press about Pippa’s divorce from her asshole first husband. Details I’d told her, never thinking they’d leak out. I spent a lot of money shutting her up and killing the story before it hit scandal magazines. It still makes me angry that she walked away with money, but at least no harm came to my sister. I can deal with moochers to an extent, but I draw the line at people going after my family.

  After being used to the kind of bone-deep loyalty running in my family, I can’t and won’t settle for less. Maybe the standard is too high, but I don’t give a damn. I don’t hesitate to put my neck on the line for the people I care about. If they don’t want to reciprocate, they have no place in my life. There are enough Bennetts to fill my time with, especially now that we have a whole new generation to raise.

  “Quite a crowd you have here tonight, Blake,” Arthur says. He’s been one of my earliest clients and is a regular. Back then, his wife of more than thirty years had just died. He never drinks much, and my theory is he comes here more to socialize than drink. Once he let slip that his house was too empty without his wife. I always find him a spot right at the bar when he stops by, no matter how full it is.

  “We had a group of tourists for a wine tasting earlier, and they stayed after it was over,” I explain. Having Napa Valley close by is good for business. I even thought about buying a vineyard or two, go into wine production.

  “This is fantastic,” Arthur comments, sipping one of the wines we had at the tasting.

  “It is. Starts out a little strong, but it opens up in a rich bouquet.”

  “Reminds me of my wife,” Arthur says, tipping the glass back. “She spent the entire first year I knew her turning down my advances. But when she finally gave in...” He raises his glass, as if that’s explanation enough. I understand. I also take Arthur’s words as a sign. Mind you, I’d take anything and twist it into a sign right now.

  Here I am again, thinking about Clara, wondering if she’s asleep, replaying in my mind the way she leaned in when she asked me not to kiss her.

  She was so responsive to me, I wanted nothing more than to push her against the kitchen table and kiss her. I wanted to do more than kiss. I wanted to drive her insane with pleasure, bring her over the edge again and again. I want her, and not just in my bed. I can make her laugh, but I want to learn how to make her happy. She beckons to me on a visceral level, her sweetness and passion pulling me in like a magnet.

  I will make this woman mine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Clara

  Over the next few days, I constantly run into Blake. On our balcony, on the staircase, in front of the building. There is no reprieve, and the tension between us escalates with every encounter. I’m positive the next time I see him I’ll spontaneously combust.

  Which is why Tuesday morning, I go for a run. I’m only an occasional runner (with the occasion usually requiring
me to fit in a tight dress for a special event), but my body has been humming with tension for days, and I need to shake it off.

  My battery-operated friend will remain out of commission for the time being, considering wall thickness and all that.

  The morning is pleasantly cool as I start my run, and there isn’t much fog even though wisps of mist do seem to linger here and there. It’s early enough that dew still covers the greenery.

  It’s a great neighborhood for a run, what with all the mansions and manicured lawns lining the streets. As I approach our building, Blake infiltrates my thoughts again.

  I slow down to a brisk walking pace about one hundred feet from the entrance, but I’m still panting as I climb the staircase.

  “Morning!”

  As if I’ve conjured him up by sheer force of daydreaming, Blake appears at the top of the staircase, which has never seemed narrower. I always get the impression that any space instantly shrinks when Blake is inside it. I don’t know if it’s because he takes up a lot of space anywhere, or because I’m so consumed by him that everything else fades around him. Probably a combination.

  “You’re up early.”

  “Bank meeting.”

  Ah, that explains the suit. I lick my lips. Sweet heavens, this will not bode well for me. On any given day, I’m having trouble keeping my thoughts in check around him. Now, with Blake in a suit... call me shallow, but I’m a sucker for a man in a suit. That goes double when the man in question is Blake.

  “Thought you weren’t a runner.” He descends two steps until we’re level, and in my clumsy attempt to put some distance between us, I back into the wall of the staircase.

  “I’m not, but I wanted to clear my head and.” Shake off the crazy sexual tension. Yeah, that’s a thought best kept to myself. “Had some extra energy to shake off.” Licking my upper lip, I taste salt. I need a shower stat. My tank top clings to my back, and to my chest, a detail that does not escape Blake.

  “I have to go shower. I’m a sweaty mess.”

  “I disagree.” He brings one hand to my face, his finger skimming across the skin over my upper lip, where I licked before. “You’re sexy as hell. I love your smell.” Leaning forward, he rubs the tip of his nose against my temple. “So feminine. Sweet.”